"Ha! A Cuthbert—a genuine shirker! I think some of you might oblige the gentleman."
Then he stepped outside and went into the seventh edition of his impressionist sketch, "Farmyard of a French Farm," with lots of BBB pencil for the manure heap. He was a young C.O. and new to the regiment.
The Mess "carried on" the conversation.
"I'll write to the blighter," shouted the Junior Sub. "I'll be an awf'lly 'interesting correspondent.'"
"And a brilliant one?" queried the Major.
"A Verey brilliant one, Sir," asserted the Sub., giving a sample.
"This sort of slacker," said the Senior Captain bitterly, as with infinite toil he scraped the last of the glaze from the inside of the marmalade pot, "is the sort that doesn't realise that there's a war on."
"Don't you make any mistake," said the Major, "he knows, poor devil! I'm going to write to him and say, 'When I think of the incessant strain of the trench warfare carried on with inadequate support by you civilians of military age against the repeated brutal attacks of tribunals, I marvel at the indomitable pluck you display. In your place I should simply jack it up, plead ill-health and get into the Army."
"I've got an idea," said the Junior Sub., joyously.
"Consolidate it quickly," said the Adjutant, "and prepare to receive counter-attacks. Yes?"